All Tomorrow's Parties 4/4

We woke at 7:30 to clean the chalet, our minds and ourselves. Food and fuel was grabbed via the aforementioned Tescos. At was at this point that Rob became a granddad. Confused and agitated by the world, he explained that after I went to bed, he snaffled the remains of his pixie dust, ran off to the Crazy Horse and ended up in another Chalet where he wrote and recorded an off the cuff demo with some guys from Cornwall. He hadn't been to sleep at all and was still up. Very much up.

I whacked the CDs on again. Driving back was far worse than the drive down: a constant battle of heavy eye lids and Relentless Juiced Berry (seriously. endorsement.) The average speed cameras hit us harder this time. With so many roadworks along the stretches free of cameras, progress was slow and we all lost our minds to the cabin fever insanity. The pasta was now able to melt steel and fumes were probably intoxicating us off our collective faces. This required constant service stops so that we could find a large open space for screaming and bloodletting to keep us on the right side of crazed. If Rob had become the drug addled grandfather, Seymour was quickly becoming the child in need of tranquilisers. Powerful ones.

All Tomorrow's Parties 2/4

Day two began with a hangover, front and vice. We managed, with herculean effort, to lift our leaden heads off our pillows and out the door for the weekends most bizarre spectacle: Sun Ra Arkestra. An amazing array of sparkly outfits and free form calamity jazz with truely interesting results, they had to be one of the highlights of the whole weekend for me. Some impromptu break neck speed charleston-esque dancing from one of the sax players, who could easily claim a pension or two, made for a jaw dropping visual metaphor to the impressive set. Afterward we sought out two friends who had also made the epic journey down from Leeds in search of some beautiful noises; mike and teresa. We once again sought out some food from one of the nearby vendors, this this time plumping for some Finnigan's fish and chips which were revolting. Soggy batter, dry fish, shit chips and expensive... you may be wondering what happened to the pasta, so did we! It wasn't going well for our epic tubs o' carbs and the concept of eating them was dropped on this, the saturday, due to the funky odors and worringly tangy/sour tastes arising from our plastic nosh mountains. With a poor excuse for fish and chips in my belly and other food options looking increasingly insane price wise we landed upon a heavy and fateful decision. Do we go to Tescos and buy some cheap grub or stay and try and enjoy the Horrors? I voted for the faceless corporate monster that wanted to assure me that "...every little helps!" ...they do cheap sandwiches.

Poverty and hunger beget principles.